


Red Room

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Mild Kink, Multi, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-11-13 22:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18040196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Somewhere in the wind-scoured wastes of Siberia, the Red Room academy complex stands, a grey and forbidding shadow on the austere landscape. The multi-paned windows of the main hall, a large, stone building reminiscent of an old hospital or asylum, look out on a bleak courtyard, and upon high fences capped with razor wire far beyond.

Crowded about one of these windows is a group of eight young women, all between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. They wear simple, white dancer’s leotards and leggings, but for one. A slight girl with bright-auburn hair and large green eyes, who would be beautiful, were it not for her nose, which is somewhat blunt and round, and her slightly crooked, too-full lips. Unlike her companions, she is dressed in black, signifying that she has graduated to the next level of training.

They see the helicopter appear in the distance, black against the grey clouds, kicking up snow and dead grass as it descends on the helipad across the courtyard. They watch their severe and haughty mistress greet the man obsequiously as he disembarks, then trot after him like a cur as he strides toward the main hall. Two of the younger girls remark on his long hair, and whisper that it makes him look like a lion. The eldest, the redhead, tells them to shut their mouths and stand in line as they were told.

They fall in and stand at rigid attention, awaiting his arrival with bated breath, some fuming with acrid jealousy, because he is not here for them. He is here for her. The Winter Soldier, they call him. The deadliest assassin in the world. She will complete her training under his supervision. The first of the Red Room assets to do so.

She focuses her breathing and remains perfectly still, as uniformed, armed guards open the doors. Their mistress follows the man in and the guards shut the doors behind them. Her enhanced senses pick up his scent instantly. Masculine and unfamiliar. Leather, sweat, and gunpowder. Despite his heavy boots, he moves silently, like a prowling cat. Still, his presence in the room is palpable.

The girls all stand a little straighter, eyes resolutely ahead, as he approaches. He stops a few paces away and inspects her with cold disinterest. The grey light from the windows glints off the silvery surface of his titanium left arm, with its red star emblazoned on the shoulder.

“She is small,” he says to the mistress in unaccented, Moscovian Russian. “And thin.”

“Yes, sir. She is very small, I am afraid,” the mistress agrees, pursing her red lips disapprovingly. “But she is quick enough, and not so stupid as she looks.”

The man’s eyes flash over her again. “Come here.”

She steps forward and stands before him.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Natalia, sir,” she answers, keeping her eyes on the floor. There are white flecks of snow clinging to his black boots.

“Look at me.”

She raises her head and looks into his fierce, icy-green eyes. What she sees there takes her breath away. It is nothing. There is nothing in this man. No emotion, no desire, no fear, no pain. Nothing but a single clarity of purpose. For the first time since she was a small child, she is afraid.

“Natalia, you belong to me, now. You will do exactly as I say, without question, at all times. You will eat, sleep, bathe, piss, breathe only when I tell you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been trained in languages,” he says, switching to standard, non-regional English, indicating she should do the same.

“Yes sir,” she answers in English. “I am fluent in Arabic, English, Dutch, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Latin, Mandarin, and Spanish. I am conversant in many others.”

“Your accent is almost acceptable. Your cadence and intonation are abysmal. Though, I doubt that’s your fault.” He says this with a faint expression if distaste, casting a sidelong glance at the mistress. “Looks like I’ll be completing your English training, as well.”

Natalia has always excelled at languages, and is especially vain of her command of English. Her cheeks burn under the chastisement, and she looks down at his boots again. The little flecks of snow are melting, forming tiny beads of water on the black surface.

“Hopefully the rest of your education has been more rigorous,” he continues. “Go to the gymnasium and wait for me. We’ll test your proficiency in close-quarters combat first.”

She pivots on her heel and walks out the door, without looking at him again.

Later that evening, she sits in the infirmary, battered and humiliated, holding a cold compress to a blackened eye, and staring sullenly at the white and green tiles on the floor with the other. The Winter Soldier stands nearby, scanning her medical chart, as a nurse tends to the knife slashes on her arms and side.

“One pregnancy, status terminated,” he says, as he turns the page. “Why were you not sterilized before that part of your training?”

“I hadn’t begun menstruating, due to my low body weight,” she replies flatly, keeping her eyes on the floor. “The mistress said pregnancy wasn’t possible. She was mistaken. It was discovered when it self-terminated. Then I underwent the sterilization procedure.”

“Your mistress has been careless,” he says, shutting the chart and replacing it on the counter. “She will be corrected. Go eat, then report back to me.”

In the cafeteria, the others are already seated at the evening meal. The eldest seven at one long table, with the mistress at the head, and the twenty younger girls at several tables on the further side of the room. Natalia carries her tray to the empty place at the end of the older girls’ table and sits. She cuts her meat and eats mechanically, unable to feel anything but the eyes of her compatriots on her bruised face and bandaged arms.

“He beat you so badly, Tasha,” the girl seated beside her says in Russian, her brown eyes dancing with mirth. “You looked like a first-year who’d never seen a knife.”

“You saw how fast he was, Lyuda,” another girl, Maria, says more sympathetically. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Not even you, Tasha.”

“I guess that’s why he’s training me,” Natalia says quietly, in English. “He’s the best.”

“He’s an animal,” a pretty, blonde girl named Sveta scoffs. “They say he has to be kept in a cage at night, or he’ll tear apart anyone who comes near him.”

“He didn’t look like an animal to me,” Maria says. “He is beautiful. Like a woman.”

“He is beautiful,” Lyuda agrees. “Maybe he’ll tear you apart, Tasha. I bet you’d like that.”

“Too bad Tasha is so ugly,” Sveta laughs. “He’ll have to close his eyes when he fucks her.”

Natalia ignores them and continues eating, which seems to pique Lyuda’s ire. Her smile grows cold and venomous.

“No, Sveta,” she says sweetly. “He’ll put her on her belly like a dog, so he doesn’t have to see her crying about her dead baby.”

In one rapid, smooth motion, Natalia flips her steak knife around and slams the pointed blade down through Lyuda’s hand, pinning it to the wood table. She rises calmly and picks up her tray, while Lyuda screams and wails.

The other girls stop eating and crane their necks to see what has happened, whispering amongst themselves as the mistress jumps up and hurries over angrily, high-heels clacking on the tile floor. “What is all this!” she demands. She yanks out the bloody knife and drops it onto Natalia’s tray, but she doesn’t look her.

“Lyudmila, you blubbering fool, shut your mouth! Maria, take her to the infirmary. Sveta, clean up this mess. The rest of you, finish your supper! Now! There is nothing to be gawking at!”

Maria hauls the bleeding, ash-white girl to her feet and leads her away, as Sveta trots into the kitchen to retrieve towels and cleaning solution. The others return dutifully to their meals. The commotion thus calmed, the mistress smooths her strawberry-blonde curls and walks back to her seat, never giving Natalia a word or a glance.

Natalia returns her tray to the wash basin in a daze, her head spinning with the sudden, exhilarating awareness of her new position. She is no longer under the mistress’s governance. No longer one of them. She truly does answer only to him, now, and even the mistress fears him.

 

 

 

 

 

“Sloppy,” he barks. “Do it again.”

She chambers and attempts the kick again. Again, it glances off his deflecting block, and sends her off balance. This time he sweeps her leg and slams her down flat on her back, knocking the wind out of her. His black boot comes down with enough force to hurt, but not actually crush her trachea. She grasps it with both hands, trying to force his weight off her neck.

“You’re already dead, lisichka,” he says. “No grappling.”

She drops her arms on the mat and glares up at him. He removes his foot and steps back, observing her form as she leaps to her feet and assumes her fighting stance.

“Again.”

She advances and chambers for the kick, but at the last second, she drops and spins sideways, sweeping his legs and knocking him onto the mat. He catches hold of her arm and the back of her shirt and flips her over his body, using the momentum come down on top of her and pin her.

“Good,” he says, hopping to his feet. “But you had to improvise because you can’t do as you’ve been told. Try again.”

She tries again. Again and again, slamming into the mat over and over, as tears of frustration blur her vision till she can barely see. When he finally tells her she’s embarrassed herself enough for now, and sends her to shower, she is half dazed and swaying on her feet.

She strips stiffly and steps into the shower stall, where she soaps her body and shampoos her hair. She puts both hands on the tile, letting the steaming water pour over her face as the detangling rinse soaks in. She hears the door swing open and bang shut. No one is allowed into the South Wing but him and her, and they share the dormitory style bathroom between their two rooms, but he doesn’t normally bathe when she is present.

She hears him moving about the dressing area, and then the water start in the next stall. She rinses her hair, then shuts off her water and steps out. The white curtain is drawn over his stall.

“Lyova,” she calls out, over the noise of his shower.

“Yes,” his voice returns.

“May I come in?”

“Why?”

“I want to massage your back. I need to practice.”

There is a pause.

“Five minutes. We have a lot more to do today.”

She draws the curtain aside and steps in, then gives a sharp gasp. The water is ice cold. How in god’s name can he be bathing like this?

He turns and looks at her. “What’s the matter?”

“The water is fucking freezing,” she says, through chattering teeth. “You’re going to give yourself pneumonia, what are you doing?”

“I don’t get sick,” he says flatly.

“Jesus—fucking Christ,” she sputters, pushing him aside so she can adjust the temperature.

As the water heats, steam fogs the mirror-like finish of his titanium arm, and droplets roll down over the star, drawing shiny little blood-red lines in the cloudy surface. She looks up at him, to see a strangely thoughtful expression on his face.

“Why do you look like that?” she asks.

“This feels better,” he says. “The hot water.”

“Of course it does,” she says, stifling a smile. “Are you joking?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he says, in the frank, literal way in which he tends to answer such questions.

“That’s why no one showers in cold water, Lyova. Maybe you don’t get sick, but it still feels like shit.”

“Oh.”

He gives a start and blinks as she puts her hands on his chest, sliding the heels of her palms over the broad, hard muscles under the hot spray of the shower.

“Does that hurt?” she asks.

“No.”

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

In the months he’s been training her, they’ve been in constant contact, by necessity of practicing various fighting styles together, but this is the first time she has dared to touch him in any other way. His matter-of-fact indifference to her proximity and nudity irritates, but does not surprise her. He seems to be entirely unaware of himself as anything but a machine for ruthless, efficient slaughter.

When he had first arrived, she had expected, naturally, that he’d want to fuck her. The other girls had assumed it as a matter of course. She’d been relieved when he appeared to have no interest in such things. Then confused. More recently—due in part to her spiky need to prove herself against any opponent, and in larger part to his extraordinary physical beauty—she has begun to find herself increasingly fixated on him as an object of sexual desire.

She moves closer, pressing her naked body against his as she works her fingers up the back of his neck and into his wet hair. He looks down at her curiously, but makes no move to stop her. Her courage fortified by his apparent passivity, she stands up on tip-toe, and draws his face down toward her. He submits, allowing her to cover his mouth with hers.

Her pulse pounds in her ears as she pushes his lips apart and slides her tongue forward across the edge of his teeth. He mirrors the gesture mechanically, and their tongues caress and roll over each other for a long moment. She breaks the kiss, lightheaded and breathless, tugging his bottom lip between hers as she pulls away to look up at him. His green eyes stare blankly back at her.

“Did that feel good?” she asks, with a palpable edge of impatience.

“Yes.”

She moves her hand down to assess his physical response, then frowns and backs away a step.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just—turn around so I can practice the massage, ok?”

“Your accent is improving,” he says, as he turns to face the wall. “Good.”

She gives an exasperated sigh and digs her thumbs in ruthlessly, working out her frustration on the solid, resistant muscles of his shoulders. When the five minutes are up, he shuts off the water, and she steps out to towel off. He follows and picks up his towel as well, then stands there holding it, with that thoughtful expression on his face again.

She looks up at him questioningly. “What’s wrong?”

The furrow in his brow deepens and his jaw works, as if he is attempting to parse some difficult problem.

“Thank you,” he says at last. Then he turns abruptly and walks away into the dressing area.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve awoke to the first rays of early-morning sunlight peering in through his bedroom window. He blinked groggily and turned his head, to find himself looking into a pair of wide, green eyes, staring back at him from the pillow beside his.

“Hey, Buck,” he said, in his uncharacteristically husky morning voice. “Um. What you doing?”

“Watching you sleep,” Bucky said, continuing to stare at him.

“I’m not asleep now, ass,” Steve laughed. “Why didn’t you just wake me up?”

“Because then I’d have to explain to you what I’m doing, like I am now, instead of doing what I was doing, which was going fine until you interrupted me by waking up.”

Steve noticed the dark circles beneath his friend’s eyes and frowned. “How long have you been watching me?”

“You fell asleep around one, so like…five hours?”

“Buck, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You have to sleep.”

Bucky shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Dr. Barenbaum gave you—”

“Don’t work,” Bucky cut him off. “You know that. We can’t get drunk, either. Sleeping pills are a joke.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” Steve sighed. “I just wish I could help you somehow. It kills me to see you like this.”

“It’s not about falling asleep,” Bucky said, beginning to sound manic. “It’s waking up. Every time I wake up there’s this moment where my mind is gone and I don’t know where I am. And I’m about to feel a lot of pain, and then go kill someone, then more pain, and then be put to sleep so I can wake up and do it all again.”

Not knowing what else to do, Steve pulled him into his arms and pushed his head down onto his chest, beneath his chin.

“No, this is—come on, Steve,” Bucky said irritably, attempting to twist free.

“I’m gonna hold you till you go to sleep, so quit squirming,” Steve replied, wrapping his arms more tightly around him. “If you wake up and you don’t know where you are, I’ll be here to tell you.”

“You can’t lay around with me all day,” Bucky grumbled. “You have work.”

Despite his friend’s protests, Steve refused to let go. He lay there holding him, stroking his back and pressing kisses into his shaggy mop of dark hair. Eventually, Bucky gave off his agitated shifting about, and his breathing slowed and became more regular.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve said softly.

“Hm?”

“Would it help if I sang you a lullabye?”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Bucky mumbled into his chest.

Steve laughed and slid his palm up his back. Unintentionally, his fingertips grazed over the spiderweb of scars on his left shoulder, where the Hydra butchers had hacked into his body to attach the cybernetic prosthesis. Bucky gave a start and hissed, but he didn’t try to pull away again.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Steve said hastily. “Are you in pain?”

“Always,” Bucky said in a thick, drowsy voice. “Touching…helps.”

Steve reached up and laid his hand on the titanium shoulder. Keeping vigilantly alert to Bucky’s reactions, he began to massage the rough scar-tissue with the pads of his fingers. Bucky made a soft sound in his throat, and buried his face deeper in Steve’s chest. Steve continued, carefully adding pressure and working along the shoulder seam. Bucky gave a deep, shuddering sigh, and Steve felt his muscles go slack. After a few more minutes, he was fast asleep.

“I love you, Buck,” Steve whispered. “I’m gonna find a way to help you, I promise.”

He pressed another kiss to the top of his head, then closed his eyes to doze and listen to Bucky’s soft breathing as he slept in his arms.

 

 

 

 

 

“Lisichka,” he says, nudging her with an elbow. “Stay awake.”

She blinks and shakes herself. She had been unaware that she’d been nodding, but sure enough, her scope is off-center now, and she has to realign it. She peers into the eyepiece, turning the tiny dial, then curses under her breath and quickly pulls her glove back on. It’s so cold that her fingers sting and ache from that brief exposure.

It doesn’t bother him, of course. His lips are unnaturally flushed, but otherwise, he looks exactly as fresh and alert as when they’d taken this position twenty hours ago. She tries flexing her toes in her boots to keep the blood circulating, but they’re so numb she can’t really tell if it’s doing any good.

“You ok?” he asks, seeing her restless fidgeting.

“No, Lyova, I’m not,” she says irritably. “We’ve been laying on our faces in the fucking snow for an entire day and night, my arms are killing me, I can’t feel my feet, and I’m pretty sure my tits are frozen solid.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” he says. “Your extremities would freeze first.”

She rolls her eyes. “It was a hyperbole. You ever heard of that?”

“No.”

“Well. Buy a dictionary.”

“You’re fatigued and losing focus. Do you need me to take the shot?”

This matter-of-fact chastisement stings and she looks away. “No. I’ve got it.”

“Good,” he says. “Don’t fall asleep.”

She sighs and looks into her scope again, then back at him. He lifts the spotting scope and scans the target location, a low, grey building surrounded by snow-covered trees.

“No change. Proceed with prior—scope. Target approaching.”

She presses her eye to the eyepiece. Sure enough, there is a vehicle pulling up to the building. It stops and the headlights shut off, then a man gets out.

“I have visual,” she says. “Confirm.”

“Hold fire.”

She waits. Another man is climbing out of the vehicle.

“God damn it,” she hisses. “He was supposed to be alone.”

“That’s an anti-tank rifle. You can take them both at once.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“No. I’ve done it before.”

“I haven’t!”

“Shut up and aim. Prepare to fire on my mark.”

She centers the first man in her scope and focuses her breathing, letting her finger just touch the trigger. The second man steps around the vehicle. They draw closer together. Closer.

“Mark.”

She squeezes the trigger. The report of the rifle splits like thunder through the air, echoing off the snowclad peaks all around them, and through the valley below.

“One shot fired, two targets down,” he says, lowering the spotting scope. “Perfect.”

The elation of his approval, as much as the clean kill, burns through her veins like liquor, setting her cheeks tingling and her heart pounding. Her hands shake as she removes the bipod from her rifle, then takes it apart and stows it in its long, canvas carrying case. He pulls her to her feet and she slings it over her back, fastening the strap across her chest, then they prepare to make the trek back up to the extraction point, at a long-disused WWII military outpost atop a hill overlooking the valley.

Even with her enhancements, the fatigue is telling on her. By the time they’ve gotten halfway up the rocky, snow-covered slope, her legs ache so badly she can barely move them. They are picking their way over a particularly steep area, when her boot slips on a frozen stone.

The rifle weighs forty pounds, which is not particularly heavy for her normally, but carrying it on her back distributes a lot of mass above her natural center of gravity. As such, the weight imbalance pitches her backward.

She feels herself fall in slow-motion, aware that there is nothing she can do but wait for sickening crack as her skull connects with the icy rocks. It does not. The soldier had been a few steps ahead of her, and shouldn’t even have seen her fall, but somehow, he is already behind her. He catches her in his arms as easily as one would catch a doll, and lifts her lightly off her feet.

“I—I almost died,” she gasps. “Holy shit.”

“That fall wouldn’t have killed you, but it would’ve injured you badly.”

She stares at him, not bothering to protest that she can walk her fucking self, as she usually would. “You caught me. How did you get to me so fast?”

“I was paying attention. I told you the fatigue was making you lose focus.”

“Jesus Christ, Lyova, I’m trying to thank you,” she sighs. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

For a fleeting moment, she is almost certain she sees the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Then he hoists her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and continues up the slope.

“I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

“We’re too close,” he says, as they pass the open door of a lively bar.

She slows her pace and hangs back, but the target stops suddenly, at the stall of a tobacco vendor. They’re going to have to walk past him anyway.

Unperturbed, the soldier hooks his arm around her waist. “Lean on me. Laugh at something I said.”

She does as she’s told, stumbling into him with a flirtatious giggle, like a tipsy sightseer. At the next street, they round the corner. He pushes her against the building and covers her body with his. 

“Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable,” he whispers. She can feel his hot breath on her face.

She pulls him into an overly demonstrative kiss just as the man comes around the corner. He passes by, studiously looking the other direction. The soldier bends down as if he is kissing her neck, so she can keep her eyes on the target. When there is enough distance between them, she taps his shoulder, and they continue on.

Up to this point, there have been enough pedestrians about the university to make them inconspicuous, but now the man is leading them into a more sedate area, filled mostly with book shops and cafes that are closed at this hour. The street is empty and quiet, and her footsteps go off like gunshots in her ears, echoing on the hard cobbles.

The man steps up to the door of a shop marked “Religious and Occult Books,” where he pauses and looks about warily, but the soldier has already pulled her into an alleyway between two buildings. She reaches inside his coat and takes her silenced pistols from the holsters as he unfastens his belt. He buckles it around her waist and checks the smoke grenades, then he looks up at her.

“Everyone in the building.”

She nods.

“I’ll wait at the extraction point for one hour,” he says, then he turns and vanishes into the shadows.

Thirty-four minutes later, she is stepping off the elevator at the top floor of a nearby parking garage. She walks briskly to the waiting vehicle and slides into the passenger seat. Without a word or a glance at her, he starts the engine and pulls out, to drive the five floors down to the exit.

“How many?” he asks, as they turn out into the street.

“Seven,” she says. “Three adult males, four adult females.”

“Rounds?”

“Seven.”

“Smoke cover?”

“Didn’t need it.”

He keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t respond, but the barest hint of a smile curls his lips. She gazes at his face in profile, then leans back in her seat and closes her eyes, committing the moment to memory. Her first solo strike, executed flawlessly, and the blood of seven human beings a small price to pay for that single, precious smile.

 

 

 

 

 

“I cannot…fucking believe you’re ok with this,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Steve retorted. “What part did you think I wouldn’t be ok with?”

“I don’t know, maybe the part where your buddy and I used to be…whatever we were. I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Did you have sex?”

“Did we—Jesus Christ, Steve, she was a teenager! And an asset! And I’m gay!”

Steve smiled cheerfully and waved at the other patrons who had been startled by his friend’s exclamation and turned to look, then leaned forward and spoke at a more courteous volume.

“I don’t think you’re as gay as you think. You’re in love with a woman.”

“I am not,” Bucky maintained. “I love her. There’s a difference.”

Steve squinted. “Is there?”

“I don’t know, were you in love with your mom?”

“Gross, Buck.”

“Yeah. So there is a difference.”

“So, you feel about her like you would about a parent?”

“No, I feel about her like I would about…her. There’s not a comparison, here. She’s a singular phenomenon.”

“Said the guy who’s not in love,” Steve smirked, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh my fucking god. I am in love with _you_ , you smug little fuck!”

“I’m bigger than you, Buck. You’re the little one now.”

“And I can still kick your ass.”

“And I can still fuck the sass out of yours.”

Bucky choked on his coffee and hunched over spluttering and coughing into a napkin, as his friend laughed and patted him on the back.

“The shit—that comes out of your mouth,” he gasped, still attempting to recover. “I thought I knew you!”

“Welcome to the club. I think I’m gonna have t-shirts made. I can’t believe neither of you said anything about this before.”

“Yeah, well it’s not an easy thing to work organically into a conversation. Hey, remember when I was a brainwashed murderer? I also trained your friend as an assassin for a hostile government. See? It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to finish my coffee and get out of here. This place is way too crowded.”

“I meant about this thing between you and Nat, ass.”

“Thing? There’s no thing. That was years ago in another life.”

“Except…”

“Except what? Just say what you mean, will you?”

“Except you two still have feelings for each other.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re rooting pretty hard for camp ‘still have feelings,’ Rogers. What are you up to?”

“Nothing. I just want both of you to be happy.”

“Oh my f—you’re into her. That’s what this is about. You’re trying to set up some kind of sexually deviant Paint Your Wagon situation.”

“How is that the one movie you didn’t miss in seven decades?”

“Don’t try to change the subject. You want to have both of us in a big…bisexual buffet, admit it.”

“Would you be into that?”

“Please, Steve, I’m not an idiot. Of course I would.”

“Yeah, cause you’re bisexual.”

“You are.”

“Yes, I am,” Steve grinned.

“You think she’d be into it?”

“Fuck. I have no idea. I think she thinks we’re both kind of ridiculous.”

“We kind of are. I mean, I have a robot arm and you wear a blue leotard. We’re basically circus performers.”

“Circus performers with a higher combined kill-count than most armies. We’re pretty impressive, Buck. You were the deadliest assassin in the world. And remember when we fought all those Nazis?”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “Those dumb fucks.”

“How would I even approach her about it, though” Steve said, scratching his chin musingly. “She does carry a lot of concealed weapons.”

Bucky smiled proudly. “That’s my girl. And she could kill you without any, too.”

“Come on. Help me out.”

“I dunno, grab her and kiss her and then toss her over your shoulder and carry her home.”

“No, see, I don’t want her to stab me, is the thing.”

“It worked on you.”

“Yeah, but I’m easy.”

“You’re right. All it took was eighty years of friendship and me coming back from the dead, and you gave it up just like that. You whore.”

“Wait till I get you home.”

“Focus. What are you going to say to her?”

“I have to talk to her about you, so…I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come up naturally.”

“Are you going to lecture her about not telling you?”

“Of course not.”

“Steve, do not lecture her.”

“I won’t!”

“Ask her to come to dinner and we’ll talk about it together.”

“Are you gonna cook?”

“Fuck no, we want her to like us. I’ll get some takeout or something.”

“Good thinking.”

“Just don’t say anything stupid, ok?”

“No promises.”

 

 

 

 

 

He is sitting on his cot with his back to the door, when she approaches. He hears her, but he doesn’t give any sign. His leather chest armor and black thermal undershirt are on the floor beside the cot. His muscular back is bent forward, and his right hand is on his left shoulder, clutching it, as if he is in pain.

Without a word, she steps up behind him and lays her small hand on the cold, metallic surface. He gives a start and growls low in his throat, like a wounded animal. She ignores the warning and pushes his human hand away. He lets it fall slack in his lap. His powerful body trembles, and he takes ragged, gasping breaths as she works her surprisingly strong fingers deep into the scarred tissue.

Searing bolts of pain burn through his mangled nerves, followed by relief so potent that his eyes sting and begin to water. His long hair hangs about his face, concealing the tears rolling down his cheeks, but he knows she is aware of them. He also knows not a single breath of it will ever pass her lips.

Gradually, his shoulders sag, and his head droops forward. He lets her lower him onto his side, and pulls his legs up onto the cot. He lies there staring into the darkness for a long moment. Then her weight presses down on the canvas, and her small, warm body slots up against his back. His eyes fall closed as her arm coils around his waist, and he slides off into black unconsciousness, feeling her hot breath on the bare skin between his shoulder blades.

When he wakes at the hour he had determined, she is still there, fast asleep, with her arm draped over his waist. He is aware that he willingly lost consciousness in the presence of another human weapon, who could easily have slit his throat as he slept. He is also aware that there had been no risk of this occurring. It had been unequivocally safe to trust her with his life.

This is a concept with which he is familiar, but has never experienced. Loyalty. She has been angry with him, she has flown into irrational rages and hurled blows and insults at him, and yet she would die before she betrayed him. This is simple fact. He knows it as well as he knows his mission. He begins to think he might rather die than betray her, as well.

The idea of taking such a decision upon himself fills his mind with ugly, sickening static, and he recoils from the pain. She is an asset. She has completed her training. This is all he knows or needs to know. This soothes him, and his thoughts slide back into their correct course.

He straightens his spine and sits up. She rises as he is pulling on his shirt, and is gone before he has strapped on his chest armor. He stands to attach his shoulder holsters, then fastens on his sidearm and steps out the door.

Today, they will demonstrate her abilities before a reviewing panel of high-level officials. If all goes well, she will be the first Black-Widow class operative in the world. Trained and qualified by the Winter Soldier. He will return and report, and await further orders. Eventually, they will both die.

 

 

 

 

 

The grey light of early evening spills through the uncovered windows in his small, bare room. She takes his cold, metallic hand in hers, and looks up at him pleadingly.

Before he can process a response, his instinct reacts, and he is taking her in his arms and pressing his lips to hers. She makes a soft sound in her throat and he swallows it, inhaling her scent and tasting her mouth, pouring himself into the kiss till he can hardly breathe. When she pushes him away at last, he sees that there are tears rolling down her white cheeks.

His brow furrows apprehensively. “That was…wrong?”

“No,” she says. “But it still hurts.”

He stares at her dumbly, unable to tell her that it hurts him, too. He has no language to describe pain like this, that proceeds from no wound and for which there is no remedy. Not knowing what else to do, he pulls her close again, and holds her tightly against his chest, feeling her ragged, shuddering breaths as grief racks her small body.

The thrum of the helicopter approaching rises faintly in the distance, growing into a roar that shakes the walls around them as it passes overhead. He releases her and turns to go, but she catches his hand and stops him.

“Ne mogu zhit’ bez tebya,” she says, in a broken whisper.

His voice rings hard and cold as steel in his own ears. “Yes, you can.”

Then he is gone. She stands in his empty room, staring at the white walls until the thrum of the propellers fades away into silence. Then she straightens her back and dries her eyes. She is alone, but she is a soldier, and she will do what she must to survive.

 

 

 

 

 

“Nat!” Steve called out. “Nat, wait. We need to talk.”

“I’m super busy, Steve,” Natasha called back, continuing briskly down the hall. “Later, ok?”

He jogged to catch up with her and stepped into the elevator just before it closed.

“Seriously,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, you said that,” she smirked. “Right before I told you I was busy and we could talk later.”

“Well…I’m your boss and I say whatever you’re doing can wait.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Try me.”

“Ugh, fine. We can talk in my office.”

“You have an office?”

Natasha laughed and shook her head as they exited the elevator. They made their way down the hall, to a corner office with spectacular views of the city, where she sat on the desk and looked expectantly at him.

“You knew him,” he said, opening his topic directly, as was his habit. “You knew Bucky.”

“I knew the Winter Soldier,” she replied flatly. “I told you I did.”

“You said he was a ghost story. You said he shot you in Odessa. You didn’t mention the fact that you spent an entire year together, or that it was my best friend, who I thought was dead, who literally trained you as a spy.”

“How was I supposed to know that, Steve?” she said, crossing her arms defensively. “He didn’t introduce himself as Steve’s friend Bucky. I wouldn’t have known what that meant, even if he had. I didn’t know you existed when I knew him.”

“After we found out who he was, you still didn’t tell me,” Steve persisted. “He’s been back for months and you’ve never once mentioned it. So, you do see why I’d be kind of upset, correct?”

“Is it because you’re my boss and I kept that information from you, or is it something else?”

“It’s because you’re my best friend, Nat!” Steve said, with increasing heat. “But how can I trust you when you keep things like this from me? I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“I’m not your best friend. He is.”

“That’s—no, you’re both my best friends,” Steve retorted, crossing his arms as well. “I can have two best friends.”

Natasha couldn’t help but smile at this. “God damn it, Steve. You’re so fucking adorable sometimes, it’s like you’re doing it on purpose.”

“I’m not adorable, I’m upset,” he said, with his best attempt at sternness. “And I’m trying to lecture you. Could you pretend to respect my authority a little bit?”

“I do respect your authority. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know he had any memory of it, and I had no right to tell you things about him that he didn’t know. When I found out he remembered, I told him to tell you everything.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, and he didn’t tell you until I told him to. So why am I the one getting lectured?”

“I lectured him, too.”

She raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Well…no, but I can’t handle it when he’s like that. It just—it breaks my heart to think about what he’s been through. I love him so much.”

“You have no idea how cruel you’re being, do you.”

Steve blinked, taken aback by this response. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. I don’t understand.”

“Bucky is your best friend,” she said slowly, looking away out the window. “The Winter Soldier was my _only_ friend. In the year we spent together, he taught me more than I learned in a decade in that living hell. He taught me how to survive. When he left, I was alone. I never let anyone in again. Not till you.”

“Nat…I’m so sorry.”

“Then, when I saw you two together, I realized I’d never known him at all, and the man I—” she broke off and took a breath to steady her voice. “The man I loved never existed.”

Steve found himself utterly incapable of forming a response that didn’t sound like more worthless platitudes, so he stood silent, looking at the floor.

“I guess we have that in common,” she said, with a sad smile. “We both loved him and lost him, and years later he came back and shot us. More than once.”

Steve winced. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“The difference is, he loves you. He never loved me. I’m nothing but a bad memory to him.”

“You’re wrong,” Steve said gruffly, to conceal the emotion in his voice. “He told me that in all those years of being taught to believe he was a thing, you were the one person who made him feel human. You’re the only good memory he has.”

It was Natasha, this time, who was unable to respond. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, not even attempting to brush away the tears rolling down her pale cheeks and splashing on the front of her leather jacket.

“He told me about Odessa,” Steve went on. “And the bridge. Even before Hydra took him, Bucky was a world-class sniper. If he says he missed those shots on purpose, it’s the truth.”

“I know,” she said, just above a whisper.

“Then you know he did love you. He still does.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You didn’t know the Winter Soldier. He wasn’t even capable of forming an attachment like that. I was just an idiot child who fell for the first man who treated me—”

“Like a human being?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think it wasn’t the same for him?”

“Why would you want it to be?” she said sullenly, dashing away her tears. “You two have each other now.”

“How could I not want that? I love both of you, Nat. The idea that you might love each other too is…so much more than ok with me. He can love more than one person. So can I. So can you.”

She smiled up at him through her long eyelashes, still wet with tears. “You know he’s gay, right?”

“Mostly, but I don’t think anyone fits a hundred percent into that kind of binary.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Who taught you the word binary?”

“I read it on the internet,” he grinned. “Are you impressed?”

“Horrified. Old people cannot be trusted with internet access.”

“Nat, listen, I’ve made this kind of mistake before, so I want to be really clear about what I’m saying.” He stepped closer and took her small, delicate hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “The three of us are connected in a way no one else could even understand. I don’t know what it means or how that kind of thing would even work, but that’s the way it is. So, I wanted to ask you to come have dinner with us and talk about it.”

The corners of her lips curled with an impish smile. “Are you and your boyfriend asking me out on a date?”

“Well, asking you to have dinner at our place. I think we’re a bit past the point where casual dating is a possibility.”

“I’ll say. You’re holding my hand and you’re not even blushing like a little girl about it.”

“I don’t blush like a little girl!” he said, puffing out his chest. “I blush in a tough, manly way.”

“Yeah, you’re very tough and manly. But…I didn’t even know you felt a handholding way about me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Almost never. But I am right now.”

“Fuck, I am so bad at this. I have…feelings. Of a non-platonic nature. For you. Is that ok?”

“I could get used to the idea. As long as you don’t try to get fresh with me when we’re working.”

“I would never do that. It would be totally inappropriate. And disrespectful.”

“You’re still holding my hand.”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to work up the guts to kiss you.”

“Oh? And what would your boyfriend say about that?”

“Uh. Well…ha,” he said, shifting uneasily. “When I asked him how to bring this up with you, he told me to just grab you and kiss you and carry you home over my shoulder.”

“How very him. I don’t think that’s really your style, though.”

“Wait, he didn’t do that to you, did he? Ok well, now I have to kill him.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh. Good.”

“I was the one who kissed him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, and do you know what he did?”

“Do I want to?”

“He stared at me like I was some kind of alien, and he had no idea what had just happened.”

“He did not.”

“He did.”

“Worse than when you kissed me at the mall?”

“Much worse.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t great. In hindsight, though, I’m pretty sure he’d have reacted that way to anyone kissing him. He was basically an asexual combat android back then.”

Steve frowned. “I think that’s what people think I am.”

“I wonder what would’ve given them that idea.”

“Is it the blue tights? It’s the blue tights. I knew it.”

“Steve, you should know, the Winter Soldier and I, our relationship wasn’t romantic, but it was very intense. There are some things there that might be hard for you to understand. He was different back then. We both were.”

“I know. Part of him still hasn’t come back. Bucky is…he’s so badly broken, Nat. He barely eats, he’s not sleeping. His doctor gave him sleeping pills, but nothing works. There’s this whole big chunk of his life I can never help him come to terms with. But you were there. You knew him. I think you can help him.”

“What makes you think he wants to be helped?”

“He literally said ‘Steve, help me, I can’t live like this anymore.’”

She bit her lip, hesitating. “Alright. We’ll have to talk about that other stuff, but at least I can help him sleep.”

“You can?”

“Yeah, I used to do it for him when he had bad pain days.”

“Was that part of your spy training?”

“Yep. It was the only part that worked on him, though.” She shook her head dolefully. “That kiss would’ve wrecked any other man.”

“Maybe you should…try it on me. Just to make sure.”

With a sly smile, she hooked a finger into his belt and pulled him closer. “What did I just say about getting fresh with me at work?”

“I think I gave you the night off.”

He craned his neck down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. She tilted her head and pushed his lips apart with hers, and the kiss quickly shifted into something decidedly less chaste. After far too short a time, in his opinion, she drew away.

“You know, now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure you gave me the rest of the week off.”

“Did I?”

“You absolutely did.”

He grinned. “Then why are we still hanging around in your office?”

“Oh, this isn’t my office.” She hopped down from the desk and picked up the name placard she’d been sitting in front of. “Actually, we better go before Dorothea Johnston comes back and wants to know why we’re in here.”

Steve shook his head. “You’re an incurable rule-breaker, you know that?”

“Yeah, it’s like you have a type. Come on.”

“Do I have a type?” he said, as he followed her out the door. “Oh my god, I have a type.”

She pressed the call button for the elevator. “Sexy spies? Cause I think that’s everyone’s type.”

“My boyfriend and best friend are both Soviet assassins,” he said, laying a hand on his forehead. “This is a PR disaster waiting to happen.”

“Really? You don’t think him blowing up half of Washington DC trying to kill you was already a PR disaster?”

Steve brightened again. “He did do that, didn’t he.”  

“He did. But you could try not to look so pleased about it.”

“Hey, he’s thorough. You gotta give him that.”

“Not that thorough. He didn’t manage to kill either of us.”

“Well. I don’t think he was trying very hard.”

“Steve…are you sure about this?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure about anything, anymore. But this is the best idea I’ve got. You in?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking his hand again. “I think I am.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Eyes Forward

 

 

 

 

Boots on snow. Thirty-nine steps.

Stop.

Entry doors open.

Proceed.

Boots on concrete. Twenty-seven steps.

Stop.

Ten GRU Spetsnaz guards present. Sweat and fear and rusted iron. Muscles tense. Carrying AK-74U assault rifles. Weapon safeties not engaged.

Track in peripheral. Eyes forward.

“Dobroe utro, soldat.”

Identity verified. Major Damir Yukashev. Status: direct superior.

Switch primary lexicon: English to primary lexicon: Russian. 

Accepted.

“Mission report.”

“Mission successful. Asset completed training directives within specified parameters. Asset examination observed by General Stepashin. Approved for full operative status, class: Black Widow.”

“Very good, soldat. What are you all doing standing about? Come and take his weapons.”

Identities verified. Lt. Rostov, Lt. Drubetskoy, Lt. Mlodinov. Status: handlers. Eyes forward.

Škorpion vz. 61 machine pistol removed. Sig Sauer P226 pistol removed. Glock 19 pistol removed. Two Gerber 22-01874 Mark II fixed blade knives removed. Buck Sentry fixed blade knife removed. Shoulder holster removed. Hip holster removed. Boot holster removed. Utility belt removed.

Arms up.

Chest armor removed. Thermal undershirt removed.

Arms down. Eyes forward.

“Remind me…what is the asset’s name?”

Lisichka. Natechka.

“Romanova, Natalia Alianovna.”

“She is quite young, is she not?”

Child.

“Asset’s current age is eighteen years, eleven months, twenty-two days.”

“Ah. Young enough. She will do well, I am sure. Tell me, how did you get along with this young, female asset?”

Invalid inquiry. Eyes forward.

“Allow me to phrase that better. Describe the progression of your asset through her training.”

“Asset presented with deficiencies in required areas. Red Room mistress did not sufficiently account for said deficiencies. Administrative review recommended. Deficiencies remedied through training. Asset progressed according to anticipated timetable, met or exceeded all requirements for qualification.”

“Excellent. And yet…there is something I am not quite getting to. Of course, I can’t ask you about it, since you are nothing but a walking targeting system. Rostov, bring me that file.”

Identity verified. Lt. Rostov. Status: handler.

Scent of sweat suggests overactive adrenal glands. Fear.

Eyes forward.

“Let me see…ah, yes. Mission report, nine March, 1984.”

“Nine March, 1984. Traveled with asset to Zagreb, Croatia. Target: Stjepan Đaković, professor, organic chemistry, Zagreb University. Tracked target to objective location. Observed from covered position. Asset eliminated target and potential witnesses, cleared objective, returned and reported. Proceeded to extraction point by civilian vehicle.”

“Very good. And how did this mission reflect on her training as a Widow-class operative?”

“Asset demonstrated exceptional skill in required areas. Breached objective undetected without deploying visual cover, eliminated seven targets with single shots, completed mission within specified time.”

“Ah, impressive. You must have been proud of her.”

Pain.

Eyes forward.

“Regarding her Widow-class training. You are aware of the directives and operational parameters. Did she attempt to employ any of her class-specific skills during your interactions?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Which skills, specifically?”

Red hair. Green eyes. Hot water.

“Psychological and sexual manipulation.”

“How very interesting. Detailed report.”

“Asset attempted to create psychological imbalance by alternating hostile and non-hostile behaviors. Asset attempted to create emotional bond through familiar terms of address, nonsexual physical contact. Asset attempted to initiate sexual contact.”

“Describe the manner in which she attempted to initiate sexual contact.”

“Asset requested permission to enter shower stall during bathing. Reason given: practice therapeutic massage, as per Widow index 337.2a. I granted permission. Asset kissed me, questioned me regarding my reaction, became frustrated with lack of physical response, practiced therapeutic massage as per Widow index 337.2a, five minutes duration.”

“Ha! Rostov, do you hear this? The little bitch tried to fuck our Winter Soldier! She must be a very arrogant girl, indeed.”

Little bitch. Arrogant girl.

Create target index. Major Damir Yukashev. Priority: Alpha. Kill on sight.

Invalid target. Eyes forward.

“So, this girl, she got into the shower with you and kissed you. It would have been a good strategy, if you were not a homosexual and effectively a eunuch, would it not?”

Invalid inquiry.

“Sometimes I wish they’d left a sense of humor in that hash of a brain, because what is so funny about this to me will be lost on you. You see, the truth of the matter is that your asset will not be fully qualified as a Widow-class operative until I have heard your report. Her…let us call it…final examination, is taking place right now.”

Loyalty. Longing. Pain. Eyes forward.

“Despite the fact that her attempt to seduce you failed, I believe she found another way to get to you. If she did, she will have more than earned her designation. Unfortunately, if it is so, we will have to revisit your conditioning. We can’t very well leave our Winter Soldier vulnerable to the wiles of a teenaged whore.”

Teenaged whore.

Create target index. Major Damir Yukashev. Priority: Alpha. Kill on sight.

Invalid target. Eyes forward.

_Ne mogu zhit´ bez tebya._

Create target indexes. Lt. Rostov, Lt. Drubetskoy. Lt. Mlodinov. Priority: Alpha. Kill on sight.

Target indexes created. Proceed according to set parameters.

“Soldat! Soldat, stand down! Comply, god damn you! No, hold your fire! Do not damage him!”

Red hair. Shattered cranium. Green eyes. Bone and sinew tearing. Hot water. Blood on metal fingers—

Reset code accepted.

Targeting offline. Mobility offline. Communications system offline.

“That was a bit of an overreaction, soldat. You three, come and get these bodies out of here. He is incapacitated, he can’t hurt a fly. Look.”

Attack sustained. Barehanded strike to left side of face. Damage: negligible. Response: mobility systems offline.

Three individuals entering proximity. GRU Spetsnaz guards identified. Sweat, adrenaline, fear.

Removal of human remains falls within operating parameters. Eyes forward.

“Soldat, restore yourself to restricted mobility, level one.”

Identity verified. Major Damir Yukashev. Status: direct superior.

Order accepted. Mobility level one restored.

“Turn your communications back on, too. We have much more of which to speak.”

Order accepted. Communications system restored.

“I suppose I will have to take care of you now, since you destroyed your handlers. Why did you kill them?”

Invalid inquiry.

“I know you cannot answer that question. You understand anger, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You killed them because you were angry, and your directives won’t allow you to lay a hand on me. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, you see, there is the rub. Your conditioning is flawed. If you were not able to become angry, you would not act out violently. I suppose that is the difficulty when working with a human machine. Your mind is too much like a human mind. But, you would be of no use in combat as a blank slate with no agency within your operational parameters, so we take the good with the bad. Between you and me, you are worth a thousand of your handlers, so if you kill a few, what matter? Come and sit in your chair, like a good boy.”

Order accepted. Compliance required.

Warning: adrenaline production exceeding recommended levels. Cortisol production exceeding recommended levels. Heart rate and respiration exceeding recommended levels. Metabolic efficiency reduced. Engaging hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal axis regulation. Returning to nominal status in 12 seconds.

“No need to panic, we are just talking. I like to sit and talk, don’t you?”

Invalid inquiry. Eyes forward.

“Back to the matter at hand. Where were we…oh, yes. Describe the way in which the asset attempted to create an emotional bond with you.”

Endocrine function returned to nominal status. Metabolic efficiency restored.

“Asset habitually employed familiar language when speaking to me. Addressed me exclusively by my comms code name, rather than the standard form, ‘soldat.’ Asset frequently made nonessential communication to me regarding her opinions, impressions, and current state of physical comfort.”

“So, she used a pet name for you, and talked to you as if you were a human being. What else?”

“Asset consistently initiated nonsexual physical contact. Touched me unnecessarily. Placed her body in contact with mine during field missions, citing discomfort due to low temperature. Repeatedly administered therapeutic massage, despite requiring no further practice. Repeatedly entered my quarters and slept on my cot during my sleep hours.”

“Did this disrupt your sleep cycles?”

“No.”

“You allowed yourself to enter sleep cycles while she was present?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you take such a risk?”

“Risk deemed negligible.”

“When you say ‘risk deemed negligible’, you mean you trusted her not to harm you while you were unconscious, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, you allowed this girl to disregard regulation forms of address, allowed her to speak to you and touch you in familiar ways, and allowed her to sleep in your bed with you. Is that all correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be accurate to say that you allowed her these liberties because you experienced some gratification as a result of her actions?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Now we are getting somewhere. Tell me, while you were training her, did you experience any abnormalities in your cognitive functions or emotional responses?”

“Yes.”

“Describe them to me.”

“All systems within normal operational parameters until six week mark. During sixth week, indexing systems began to malfunction. Indexes became active spontaneously, interrupting sleep cycles. Provided unrequested information unrelated to current mission.”

“What kind of information?”

“Visual and sensory data recorded during previous missions.”

“Was this disruptive?”

“Interruption of sleep cycles reduced metabolic and cognitive efficiency. Reduced efficiency deemed acceptable within mission parameters.”

“Good. Though, I suspect that had more to do with you being allowed to remain out of cryogenic containment for far too long than anything. I warned them about that. How long did this continue?”

“Indexing malfunctions disrupted sleep cycles with increasing frequency until seventeenth week. Indexing malfunctions ceased. No further disruption of sleep cycles occurred.”

“What changed in week seventeen?”

Red hair. Green eyes. Hot water. Eyes forward.

“Was there an alteration in your circumstances that correlated with the correction of the indexing malfunctions?”

Loyalty. Longing. Pain. Eyes forward.

“I see. Tell me, when was it that the girl began sleeping in your bed with you?”

“Day three, week seventeen.”

“Soldat, it would be much simpler if you would at least attempt to extrapolate from context and answer my questions the first fucking time. But I know you cannot. Forgive me for becoming cross. I find your stupidity…trying, at times. Any other abnormalities in your cognitive functions or emotional responses?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Mission directives malfunctioned. Experienced spontaneous reprioritization on three occasions.”

“Your fucking…your fucking directives malfunctioned? Mother of god. What was the result? Describe these malfunctions.”

Response required.

Red hair. Green eyes. Hot water.

Response required.

Loyalty. Longing. Pain.

Response required.

“Safety of asset prioritized above success of mission. Maintaining proximity to asset prioritized above mission parameters. Loyalty to asset prioritized above adherence to chain of command.”

“And these malfunctions were corrected?”

“Partially.”

“Partially? Explain.”

“Compliance with directives caused extreme distress response. Leaving asset to return and report caused extreme distress response. I am…experiencing pain…as a result of her absence. I want to go back to her. I want…to be with her.”

“You want to be with her? Ha! How marvelous. You do not want anything, my boy. You are an organic machine. And yet, she was able to not only convince you that you are a man, she was able to make you loyal to her. To make you believe you care for her. Beautiful. Exemplary. She is truly a wonder.”

Create target index. Major Damir Yukashev. Priority: Alpha. Kill on sight.

Invalid target. Eyes forward.

“That is all I have for you today, soldat. The general will be most pleased with your report. Our Widow-class operative has done spectacular work. All that is left now is to wipe your memory, and you will go back into cryogenic containment for a good, long rest. Won’t that be nice?”

Invalid inquiry.

“You know what’s next, soldat. Lie back. Good boy.”

_Ne mogu zhit´ bez tebya._

Create target index: self. Priority: Alpha.

Invalid target. The soldier cannot choose to decommission itself.

Open mouth. Bite guard received. Close mouth.

“Come, now. There is no need for tears. When you wake up, you will not even remember she existed.”

Warning: severe electric shock sustained.

Pain receptors overloaded.

Warning: severe electric shock sustained. 

Hypothalamic–pituitary–adrenal axis regulation offline.

Adrenaline production reaching lethal levels. Cortisol production reaching lethal levels.

Warning: severe electric shock sustained.

Heart rate and respiration outside permissible limits.

Cardiac arrest imminent.

Preparing systems for full reset in five seconds.

Four seconds.

Three.

Two.

Systems reset.

Status: memory clear, awaiting orders.

Eyes forward.

 

 

 

 


	3. Black Widow

 

 

 

 

Natalia Alianovna Romanova strides down the main hall of the Red Room academy, high heels clicking sharply on the glossy wood floor. She wears no jewelry, and her makeup is limited to a touch of powder, black kohl eyeliner, and crimson lipstick. Her pristine white, collared shirt is buttoned low to reveal her creamy-smooth décolleté. The heels have been chosen to elongate her graceful legs, and her tight, black pencil skirt, to hug her narrow hips and accentuate her trim waist.

She tosses her long, dark-auburn hair as she rounds the corner, and steps into the mistress’s office. The two uniformed men seated on the sofa stand as she enters. The woman behind the desk is forced to rise because they do, which Natalia notes with a touch of spiteful enjoyment.

“General Stepashin,” she says, with a respectful curtsey. “Major Yukashev. I am so grateful to be invited to meet with you. Mistress.”

“The pleasure is ours, Ms. Romanova,” the old general replies, taking her hand to kiss it. “Please, be seated.”

Natalia sits primly on the edge of the sofa and folds her hands in her lap, waiting politely for them to begin.

“Let us get right to business, then,” the general smiles, as they resume their seats. “Your evaluation was completed successfully two days ago, and you are nearly prepared to be qualified as the first Black Widow-class operative in the world. There are just a few more things we must discuss. Chiefly, we wish to speak with you regarding your training under the guidance of the Winter Soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” Natalia says, masking her apprehension by uncrossing and crossing her ankles, which draws both men’s attention to her shapely calves, as intended.

“As you know,” the general goes on, “the Black Widow program has been in development for many years, and since you represent its first graduate, your training and qualification are quite significant. In fact, it was due to the unique nature of your position that the Winter Soldier’s superiors agreed to allow us to employ his expertise. His services have never been granted to another sector.”

Natalia dips her head modestly. “I am honored, Major Yukashev.”

“The honor has been ours, Ms. Romanova,” the major replies, in a clipped, courteous tone.

“We must tell you, Ms. Romanova, that your results are frankly…exemplary,” the general says. “The soldier’s reports concerning your combat and survival skills are all above and beyond what we expected. From what Major Yukashev tells me regarding his communication style, I would call them glowing.”

“Glowing,” Yukashev confirms, with a nod.

“Major Yukashev has been kind enough to bring with him the soldier’s debriefing, which we reviewed a few hours ago. We would like to review it with you, now.”

“I am at your disposal, general,” Natalia smiles.

“Now, Ms. Romanova, the information to which you are about to be made privy is a matter of extreme security. We have only been entrusted with this under the approval of Major Yukashev’s direct superiors, and repetition of any part of it will result in swift and severe reprisal.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Mistress, if you will be so kind,” the general says, turning to the woman behind the desk.

“Of course, general,” the mistress replies, rising from her chair. “Send for me if you need anything at all.”

She straightens her grey suit jacket and glides from the room, shutting the door behind her. Natalia does not smile at her obvious indignation at being turned out of her own office, but she makes a mental note to enjoy it later, as the major goes to a large television on a wheeled stand, a few feet away.

“Before I allow you to view this, Ms. Romanova,” he says, in his unpleasantly nasal drone, “I must stress again the highly classified nature of the information contained on this tape. You are aware of the consequences, should you divulge it to anyone.”

“Yes, sir,” Natalia replies gravely.

She knows the general is observing her closely, and betrays no reaction on her face or in her posture, but her heart pounds as the major touches the button to activate the television. To see him again, even like this, will at least be something.

The image that greets her as the screen flickers to life disorients her at first. She had expected something like a military style conference room, with the soldier delivering his report to a table full of uniformed superiors. What she is looking at instead, is a black and white video recording of a large room with concrete floors and walls, that looks like very much like an old missile silo.

Spetsnaz soldiers stand all about, holding assault rifles, and Major Yukashev is visible, leaning on a safety railing which wraps around a recessed, circular area in the center of the room. Inside this circle is a black chair, like those used for dental examinations. It is surrounded by medical monitoring equipment, and some kind of bizarre apparatus looms above and behind it. It looks like two large, black half-circles on articulated supports. She doesn’t recognize it and can’t imagine its purpose.

“Good morning, soldat,” the Major Yukashev on the screen says, as the soldier strides into view.

He approaches within a few paces of the major and stands there staring blankly past him. He looks pale and haggard. She thinks at first that this is a product of the black and white tape, but his long hair is disheveled, and he is wearing his leather armor and black trousers. She wonders why they haven’t allowed him to bathe and change clothing before he is debriefed.

“Mission report,” the major says.

“Mission successful,” the soldier replies, in a flat, toneless voice that she hardly recognizes. “Asset completed training directives within specified parameters. Asset examination observed by General Stepashin. Approved for full operative status, class: Black Widow.”

“Very good, soldat,” the major says offhandedly, still perusing the file in his hand. Then he looks up sharply at the three black-clad men who have entered with the soldier. “What are you all doing standing about? Come and take his weapons.”

Natalia watches with growing confusion, as the three men come forward and proceed to remove all of the soldier’s weapons and gear. He stands passive and expressionless, only moving to raise and lower his arms as they strip off his chest armor and undershirt.

The major finally sets down the file and steps over to the soldier. He takes his jaw in hand and turns his face to the left and right, looking closely into it. After a moment, he releases him and steps around him, inspecting his body the way one inspects a horse at a stock auction.

“Remind me,” he says. “What is the asset’s name?”

“Romanova, Natalia Alianovna,” the soldier answers.

“She is quite young, is she not?” the major asks, stepping away to make some notes in what appears to be a medical chart.

“Asset’s current age is eighteen years, eleven months, twenty-two days.”

“Ah. Young enough. She will do well, I am sure. Tell me, how did you get along with this young, female asset?”

The soldier remains silent, staring straight ahead.

“Allow me to phrase that better. Describe the progression of your asset through her training.”

The soldier replies in that strange, hollow monotone, which Natalia has only heard him use for the first time on this tape. She does not process what he has said. All her mental resources are devoted to working out what is happening to him, without allowing any hint of it to show in her face.

She tunes back in as the major is saying, “Of course, I can’t ask you about it, since you are nothing but a walking targeting system. Rostov, bring me that file.”

Nothing but a walking targeting system…what can this mean?

The soldier is describing her first solo strike in Zagreb. She observes the minute expression of pain in his eyes when the major suggests that he must have been proud of her, but he makes no response.

“Did she attempt to employ any of her class-specific skills during your interactions?”

“Yes.”

Natalia’s heart sinks like a stone.

“Which skills, specifically?”

“Psychological and sexual manipulation.”

“How very interesting. Detailed report.”

She looks up as the major pauses the video feed.

“Ms. Romanova,” he says, in a repulsively obsequious tone. “The general has asked me to explain before we proceed further. Some things are said during this questioning which are insulting to yourself, for which I apologize, but you will understand the purpose, when you observe the result.”

“I understand, Major Yukashev,” Natalia says, with a placid smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a pretty thick skin.”

“Excellent,” the major replies. “General, with your permission.”

The general nods, and the major starts the playback again.

Natalia watches with undisturbed equanimity as the soldier is made to describe their private interactions, and detail the incident in the shower, when she had kissed him. It amuses her to hear herself described as a little bitch and an arrogant girl. She has heard far worse than this. What a soft old man the general must be, to make the major apologize for it.

“So, this girl,” the major on the screen is saying. “She got into the shower with you and kissed you. It would have been a good strategy, if you were not a homosexual and effectively a eunuch, would it not?”

A homosexual and effectively a eunuch. His lack of physical response to her makes more sense in this light. But if he is devoid of the sex instinct, how can they know he is homosexual? Natalia’s composure nearly flickers. Of course. He was not always the soldier. The way he is…this is something that was _done_ to him.

“Sometimes I wish they’d left a sense of humor in that hash of a brain,” the major is saying. “Because what is so funny about this to me will be lost on you. You see, the truth of the matter is that she will not be fully qualified as a Widow-class operative until I have heard your report. Her…let us call it…final examination, is taking place right now.”

So that is the real reason she is here. This is her final examination. Her response to the interrogation of the man she loves will decide her fate. She knows with absolute certainty that if it is not satisfactory, she will not leave this place alive. He may be the legendary Winter Soldier, but she is only one of many like her, just as disposable and replaceable as all the others.

She arches an eyebrow as she hears herself called a teenaged whore. Fairly accurate, give or take the ability to insert blades into every one of a man’s vital organs, in alphabetical order, before he has a chance to finish his inept pick-up line.

The soldier on the screen is staring blankly at nothing again. Or, to the untrained observer, that is what he appears to be doing. Natalia has seen him do this before. He is targeting. She sits forward and lets her lips part slightly, as he leaps into a blur of motion.

The three black-clad men meet speedy and gruesome ends at his hands, before he is called to heel somehow. She can’t tell how, because the major has muted the sound. The soldier’s arms go slack. He stops moving and stares straight ahead, his titanium hand dripping blood onto the concrete floor.

The major pauses the feed again.

“He’s so fast,” Natalia breathes. “So strong. How did you stop him?”

“Ah, that is our little secret, Ms. Romanova,” the major replies slyly. “But you must be aware of some of his abilities. Did he not demonstrate them during your training?”

“To an extent,” she says. “I’m augmented and he’s much stronger and faster than me, so I assumed he had to be, as well. I’ve never seen him move like that, though.”

“Does that trouble you?”

“Only because I fear I’ve been careless, sir. I didn’t realize how dangerous he was. I would have been more afraid of him.”

“That would have been wise,” the major says, looking at her keenly. “Only you had him wrapped pretty fairly around your little finger, didn’t you.”

Natalia straightens her back and keeps her mouth defiantly closed.

The major smiles wryly. “Let us proceed.”

The video begins again just as the major on the screen deals a sharp, backhanded blow to the soldier’s beautiful face. The soldier responds by staring passively into the middle-distance, as guards drag away the broken bodies.

“…restore yourself to restricted mobility, level one. Turn your communications back on…”

So much control. He’s been trained like a dog. No. More than that. He has been broken apart and put back together. Her mind catches and indexes terms from the major’s taunting speech to his unresponsive subject.

“…conditioning flawed… human machine… operational parameters… sit in your chair, like a good boy…”

She remains flawlessly composed while her stomach turns with horror, seeing his panic when he’s told to sit. Watching her powerful lion tremble meekly before this man who is not fit to be trodden under his feet.

“So, she used a pet name for you, and talked to you as if you were a human being.”

_Lyova, my love. You are the only human being I have ever known._

“…you allowed this girl to disregard regulation forms of address, allowed her to speak to you and touch you in familiar ways, and allowed her to sleep in your bed with you…”

She allows a hint of a smile to curl the corners of her blood-red lips. She must appear pleased with this success.

“…indexes became active spontaneously, interrupting sleep cycles…visual and sensory data recorded during previous missions…”

_I didn’t know, Lyova. You never told me anything unless I asked. I didn’t know to ask._

“…malfunctions disrupted sleep cycles with increasing frequency until seventeenth week. No further disruption…”

_You were in so much pain, my love. I helped you sleep because it was all I could do. Please forgive me._

The major on the screen looks disturbed. Something has finally surprised him.

“Your fucking…your fucking directives malfunctioned? Mother of god. What was the result? Describe these malfunctions.”

The soldier’s jaw muscles work beneath his skin, as if he is straining against the compulsion to answer.

“Safety of asset prioritized above success of mission,” he says at last. “Maintaining proximity to asset prioritized above mission parameters. Loyalty to asset prioritized above adherence to chain of command.”

Her throat begins to constrict with emotion. She had thought him indifferent until the end. She had believed that last kiss was given in pity for her grief.

“I am…experiencing pain…as a result of her absence,” he says hoarsely, in a far more human voice than she has ever heard him use, even when they were alone together. “I want to go back to her. I want…to be with her.”

Had he taken every single one of his knives and driven them into her chest, that pain would have been a mercy compared to this. To know now, when it is too late, that he had longed for her as desperately as she did for him.

“…our Widow-class operative has done spectacular work…wipe your memory…go back into cryogenic containment for a good, long rest…”

When he opens his mouth for the bit, her heart dies in her body. Only her superhuman command of her physical responses saves her from betraying herself. Her training alone stands between her and death, and she calls upon all of it now.

She adjusts her collar and re-crosses her ankles as tears roll down his perfect face. As her helpless beloved is strapped to a chair, and the black apparatus closes like a hell-wrought halo around his head.

She picks a piece of lint from her skirt as the muscles in his bare chest and stomach rack and seize. As he screams in agony, again and again. As his mind is broken and erased. Destroyed before her eyes.

When, at last, the black halo releases him, his green eyes are as hard and cold as death. There is nothing in this man. No emotion, no desire, no fear, no pain.

Lyova is gone. Her beloved is dead. This man is the Winter Soldier.

The anguish of hopeless longing freezes in her veins. Metastasizes into a cold, black poison. The widow’s venom on her keen and thirsting fangs. She turns and looks on the major with a lofty eye, inviting him to question her.

“You see, then, how he suffered for you,” the fool says, taking the bait. “How you worked your way into his mind and disrupted his programming.”

“I did,” she says simply. “I had your great Winter Soldier at my feet, like a dog. He was yours when he came here. He was mine when he left.”

“We are aware. He killed three men because I called you a whore.”

She tosses her hair indifferently. “Your men knew the risks of their occupations. I can’t be held to account for your failure to control him.”

“We will not fail again,” the major says, with a reptilian smile. “You have exposed the chinks in the armor, so to speak, and his conditioning will be revised. We are…indebted to you, for this service.”

“I am glad to have aided you. But I did it because I wanted to.”

“Why did you want to, Ms. Romanova?” the general asks, speaking for the first time since the review began.

He sounds genuinely curious, so she rewards him with a smile.

“It was the challenge, general,” she explains. “He was so powerful and beautiful. Like a wild horse. It felt good to tame him. If he were not a homosexual eunuch, as Major Yukashev said, I would have enjoyed riding him, too.”

The old general laughs heartily at this vulgar joke, and the major is forced to smile, lest his popular and well-connected superior officer think him impolite.

“Do you feel no pity for him, then?” he asks Natalia, as if it is an afterthought. “Would it not seem rather ungrateful to the man who imparted so many useful skills to you, to be indifferent to his suffering?”

She must thread this needle carefully. Sound too callous, and they will know it for a bluff. Too confident, and they will take her for an arrogant fool.

“I regret the fact that he suffered for my amusement,” she says, biting her lip thoughtfully. “But it seems his distress was due mostly to an imbalance between his conditioning and my training, that left him unprepared. As you say, that will be remedied. So no lasting harm has been done, has it?”

“Indeed not,” the major replies, with a touch of indignation. “His conditioning will be updated, and he will have no memory of his interaction with you.”

“You appear very pleased with your abilities, Ms. Romanova,” the general puts in. “Do you consider yourself ready to take on the responsibilities of full operative status?”

“I am pleased that the training I have received has proven so effective,” she says guardedly. “It is a credit to the academy and its founders. I feel I am prepared to begin my service, general.”

“I would agree that you have shown yourself capable and competent, and well versed in the operational protocols of your designation,” the general says, rising from his seat. “If you will excuse us, Major Yukashev and I will confer for a little while. Go and have a cup of tea. We will call for you again.”

Natalia rises and dips her head respectfully to both men. “Thank you, General Stepashin. Thank you, Major Yukashev.”

They watch as she straightens her snug skirt and steps gracefully out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

“What do you think?” the general asks his colleague, after she has gone.

“I think if she were a bit prettier, her little affectations might be charming,” the major says tartly. “Are you going to approve her?”

“I don’t know, Damir,” the general says, shaking his head. “She is so cold and…calculating. That poor idiot was in love with her, and she watched him being tortured without batting an eyelash.”

“Cold and calculating is what she is supposed to be, Grigory. You are not running a finishing school for young ladies. She is an assassin.”

“Maybe I am a foolish old man, but she is so young. She reminds me of my little granddaughters.”

“I hope not too much,” the major laughs. “If you ever catch Annechka or Katya anywhere near a firearm, you call me. I will send the soldier to frighten them out of their wits.”

“I will remember that,” the general says, laughing as well. “As for Ms. Romanova, if you have no objections, I see no reason not to approve her operative status.”

“I have reservations regarding her loyalty, but she is a spy. If she did not have a natural traitorous bent, she would not take to the work.”

“I suppose you are correct. She is not stupid, at least. She knows it is in her interest to do as she is told. Otherwise, we can always have her neutralized.”

“No, she is not stupid,” the major says irritably. “And unlike our toy soldier, she does not need to have her memory purged to carry out simple directives. I wish the higher-ups would prioritize getting our hands on the Erskine formulation. That wretched infant Barnes is the way he was left to me, and those idiot Germans made a mess of his brain. It would have been a pleasure to make Ms. Romanova the Winter Soldier and be rid of him.”

“Unfortunately, the powers that be adore him, so he is your cross to bear, for now. But don’t lose hope. Hydra has many ears to the ground. Shall we make her wait a little while before we send for her?”

“Naturally. We wouldn’t want her thinking we are too eager, would we.”

 

 

 

Natalia returns to her room in the South Wing that evening, officially the first Black Widow-class operative in the world. She has her assignment in her hands, and she is set to depart at 0500 hours. This will be her last night in this place. She bathes and sees that her few belongings are packed, then slips down the hallway into the room that had been his.

The windows are small and the walls are bare. His little cot sits in the center of the room, where he left it. It is so empty, and yet every inch of space is permeated with the ache of his absence.

She lies down on his cot and wraps her arms around herself, filling her mind with the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, the beating of his heart. She feels his strong arms holding her, his lips on hers, his breath flowing through her, as he kissed her for the last time.

Still, she does not allow herself a single tear. Not yet.

_Forgive me, Lyova, my love. I will mourn for you one day. For now, I will do what I must to survive. The dead, after all, can exact no vengeance._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
